Emily's Lovely Little Book of Average Days
by Malice of the New World
Summary: Companion piece to ObliviousAnimeGirl's story "Echoed Hearts" What in the world is Emily up to-and where has she been?
1. Sometimes

Somewhere on a hillside in rural England overlooking a slow, wonderful sunset sat two very small forms.

Closer now, it can be seen that they are dolls. One has blue painted skin and a lovely pink dress, her brunette hair rustling gently in the breeze. The other is made in the same style, but ever so slightly larger, painted a darker blue than his more delicate, feminine counterpart, dressed in an elegant black tuxedo coat.

The sun is dipping dangerously low on the horizon, a shimmering curtain of night beginning to sweep closed in the wake of the days' performance, to the clapping of bird wings and the applause of the trees.

The two on the hill are seated close together, their large, wooden hands loosely intertwined by their nubs of fingers. As the sun drops ever faster, resting momentarily on the crest of a faraway hill, the beautiful girl turns slightly, unseen joints rattling. Her gentleman companion does the same.

They lean toward each other, barely meeting in the middle as the land is plunged into the darkness of the night.

* * *

><p>These little one shots are a companion piece to my dear, dear friend, ObliviousanimeGirl and her story "Echoed Hearts". I, her Beta Fish for that story, will be filling in Emily's adventures in the mean time. I am sure that some of you have noticed the suspicious lack of a certain little blue doll in a pink dress.<p>

This writing style is not one that I normally use, but seems perfect to describe the atmosphere around Emily. Any suggestions or reviews are appreciated, but if you're grammer is bad I will not answer. Last author note untill otherwise deemed nessessary.

FLAME ME I'M COLD


	2. The Most Elegant Words are Silent

Somewhere in France, centered around the outskirts of the London shopping district, sits a quaint little diner, owned by a sweet, chatty old woman and her sisters.

It is small and homey, the large windows letting the bright sun stream in unfiltered, showing the architecture of the old buildings across the street and the blue, blue sky, with puffy white clouds floating across it slowly. The black cast iron of the chair and table legs is wound into delicate spirals, embedded with finely shaped roses and grape leaves, the larger table legs supporting the circular glass tops with widely curved curls of black.

As always, the lunch crowd is mostly women, young and old, dressed in their finery of the latest fashions, diamonds catching the light, feathers and lace filtering it, casting elegant shadows on the brown cobbled floor. The ladies laugh and speak quietly, their tea cups tinkling and chairs moving in dull blurs of sound as they make room for their friends.

The noise and chatter is pleasant to hear, so lively a sound, yet one table, as fully seated as the rest, is perfectly silent.

The table is set for six, with tiny, homemade cakes and delicacies fitted against filled tea cups and a proud silver pot with its entourage of milk, sugar, and honey dishes, all centered around a silver cake tray several layers high.

Just in front of each setting sits a doll. To reach the table many books and small pieces of their luggage have been utilized as boosters for them. One familiar patron is dressed in her customary pink, but with a lovely lace collar added and a bracelet of sapphire gems at her throat. The makeup on her face has been applied crookedly, as though by a shaky, uncertain hand, yet adds to her charm ever the more: the circles of blush match her dress perfectly; the blue eye shadow a shade darker than her skin; her red lipstick a stark contrast to all her usual pastel tones.

The other dolls are as finely decked as she, each with different light colors and a certain surreal quality about them.

Perhaps silent laughter and gossip floats between them, telling of such fantastic things done, such marvelous, impossible things seen as to be above human comprehension.

But for us, there is only silence.


	3. The Interrogator with White Walls

Somewhere in Nizhny Novgorod, Russia, there is a hidden bunker.

From outside it cannot be seen and is not widely known, even in the innermost circles of Pandora. Inside, it is well-equipped with stocks of wood and other such necessities, back rooms of back corridors filled to the brim with stores of food. Some hold highly classified papers, others are simply sleeping chambers.

Others still, interrogation rooms.

One such room is where a single man sits, waiting in agonizing anticipation. The room is lit by a depressing light, tantalizingly out of both reach and sight. The white washed cement walls are scraped and dirty near the bottoms, giving the terrified man the impression of many, many failed escapes.

The only sound is the ticking of a clock and his harsh, panicked breaths. The strange man is pale with fear, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin like cellophane, his eyes are wide and glossy, and he fidgets constantly; afraid to stay, to face his fears-IT'S SITTING RIGHT THERE-and the possibility of-OH GOTT OH GOTT OH GOTT- yet too terrified to try to leave. The door behind him taunts him constantly, a means of both escape and of nightmares.

He licks his dry, cracked lips every few seconds, his wide eyes flicking everywhere about the room wildly, refusing to meet the eyes of the figure across the table from him.

The ticking, oh the ticking-it's getting to him. Like a woodpecker against his entire being, he can feel each tick taking another second from him, counting down his life as surely as the black marking over his heart. But this is worse, like a bomb whose fuse has run completely down and should have gone off, but didn't, and there's no telling when it may, if it does at all.

Finally, he can take it no more, jumping up and sending his chair to the cold, unforgiving ground, an explosion of sound that jars his heart after the pain of silence for so long. He looks his interrogator full in the face for the second time since she entered the room, wide eyes filled with terror as he shouts at the blue skinned doll,

"Alright! I'll talk!"


	4. A Safe Place with Ambrosa

Somewhere in a dark, underground library, in the heart of Sweden, alone besides the book keeper, sat a man and a doll.

They sat a chair apart from each other on the same side of a plainly built table, pushed nearly to the book heavy shelves behind it and situated haphazardly across two rows. The man has light tan hair that shines in the all most romantic light of the candles, styled like a young girl who keeps her hair short, the mousy color matching his eyes.

His eyes are lovely, the color of them fitting in with his pale skin, lily white from always being sent to places such as this, the sharpness of their shape offset by the softer curves of his face, all brought to attention by the falling of the light and the tantalizing glare of it upon his half-moon glasses. He looks as though he should be the one behind the book keepers' desk and that he would be happy there and pleased to accept the offer, thank-you very much.

He is always in uniform, the stately black and white and neat fit making him seem even more professional and unapproachable unless you have a book to check out or need something from the archives. Or a bored Duke who wants to test him by sending him on another wild goose chase.

There is a rather depressingly large pile of books stacked on the table near his elbow, ones that he had already read piled almost twice as high on the floor on his other side, like a half built wall to ward off any that may yet interrupt his work. There is a book open in front of him, just above the notebook filled with words that, even in his exhaustion, resembles a row of highly trained ants crawling in perfect rows across the snow of the pages.

There is also a coffee pot on a portable burner with a candle underneath, running dangerously low on the man's liquid equivalent of a good rest and a decent meal. His gloved hand trembles softly around the mug he holds as he writes, only relinquishing his hold on it to refill it or to adjust his glasses and sigh, a rare expression of the constant stress and pressure.

"Coffee?" He asks the equally silent figure on the same side as him, a book open in front of her.

The doll in the pink dress shook her head politely, the rattling of the joints a staccato like a broken clock against the solid metronome.


	5. Of Unhelpful Mad Men and Rabbits

Somewhere in Newfoundland, after traveling with a friendly and rather chatty shepherd and his considerable flock and parted at the base of a certain mountain, there was a small camp.

Or, to be more precise, Liam set up camp. Vincent _had_ helped.

By the time the tents were set up (courtesy of Liam) a warm fire was burning (courtesy of Vincent). When the supplies had been hidden carefully in the back of a small cave to keep the food from freezing any more than necessary (Liam is so thoughtful, isn't he?) the food that had been left out had been tossed to the mice and the second tent was missing (courtesy of Vincent).

On a completely unrelated note, the fire was much larger.

Vincent liked mice. They were among the only creatures he treated kindly. And, after spending so much time on his shoulder, Emily had finally come to a conclusion as to why. Vincent was a mouse. Simple as that.

He was quiet, slept anywhere he felt comfortable, never seemed to eat, and always had the same melancholy look in his eyes.

Where Break was loud, he was quiet. When Break laughed at everything and nothing, Vincent only smirked. Where Break smelled like sweets, Vincent smelled like blood. Break had herself, and Vincent had…her.

The doll shifted slightly, looking down from her perch to study the blue-tinted rabbit hidden under the lace of the blonde menace's sleeves, eating the small pieces of food he gave her, tiny pink nose quivering. She sported a small spot of black on the front of her chest and thin, line-like markings on her front legs, and big, dark, soulless eyes. Such a lovely creature. She never made a sound.

At the same time, they were alike. She could sense that Vincent had a crack in him somewhere, in his heart and mind, just like the Hatter. He had the same calculating way about him and set people on edge just as readily.

As much as Emily disliked the mouse, if she pretended that the slight tang of sweetness in the air was candy being unwrapped, and the stiffness of the shoulder was a white coat pulled up a little…it was almost like home.

Strange, that she only ever felt comfortable on the shoulders of mad men.


	6. Hell Hath no Fury

An unnamed town on the outskirts of Beijing, China, 長壽命, a tinker shop on an unnamed street near the red light districts.

The shop was painted in bright reds and faded gold, long ago beauty melted into an ancient, whimsical glory, elegant trimmings on the swoop backed roof of red tiles, chimes hanging from the gutters, and an elegant front door guarded by painted dragons, rimmed with scales and feathers. Two large picturesque windows on either side of the door are clouded with dust and filled to the brim with items for sale.

The Long Life shop is known for selling eccentricities and objects of planned obsolescence to the curious passerby and collectors of the odd.

Coal blackened pots and hand painted tea sets are crowded alongside ornate headdresses and antiques. Books have mounds of folded lace and papers and who knows what all stacked upon them. Porcelain dolls and picture frames lean up against sewing manikins and gongs, an odd bagpipe next to a well-built toboggan.

Close to the glass rests a strange little doll, her soft pastel colors and lack of dust catching the eye of many on the street, her price causing them to look away and shush their young daughters' complaints.

No matter how many times this plan is called 'genius' Emily can only scoff. Her target frequents this area to buy interesting gifts for his daughter and it is well known that she adores dolls. There is nothing to it.

Revenge is a dish best served in a pink dress.


	7. Feminine Wiles and Wallflowers

Per l'amaro e il dolce? was a lovely wedding shop on the corner of two streets in Venice.

The brick building lit from the outside by golden lanterns was quaint and attractive to many a female eye, while husbands and men tended to loiter in the street lights, smoking, and grumble amongst themselves. The inside of the shop was brightly colored and neatly arranged, each dress put on display and even lovelier than the one before it.

The back wall was decorated by a hand painted mural of cream clouds and wooden doors of many designs floating in them. One at the bottom, directly aligned with the floor, looked just as faked as the others.

But, if one were to shrink down like Alice and slip through, one would find that it wasn't as fake as it looked.

Within this section of the shop were more dresses, all to the size of a doll's clothes. To Emily, they all seemed a bit over the top, decorated for weddings and very special occasions.

However…that little silver and teal number with the long veil train was hard to look away from.

Break gave her money for her missions…and she did need a disguise…


	8. All Nuisances Lead Home

تمام راه in the very heart of Ecbatana was a very familiar place to Emily. The scent of freshly ground spices and herbs of various usage and the sand kicked up by many feet gave the air a distinctive heaviness and homeliness that existed nowhere else on Earth.

The vivid colors and intricate patterns of the home spun cloth and rugs contrasted with the browns and tans of the ground and the stands that held them. Large urns and pots and lamps of all sizes, shapes and designs littered the market at varying prices.

The loud sounds of bantering and speaking drown out nearly any other noises that could be made. Any noise at all.

This made it such a perfect place to hide. Half the people here were shoppers, the other half looking for someone that didn't want to be found, a Pandora agent every hundred yards. A mystique man that told the future was around this area somewhere, hidden by the buildings and crowds.

The thing about psychics was that you could never find them if you meant to.

Which was convenient because Emily had had enough of this man and didn't want to have to talk to him again.

* * *

><p>Ahem. Well.<p>

Memory loss is no fun sometimes. :(

So, three chapters to make up for three weeks of neglect, okay?


	9. Primeval Wonders of a World on Showcase

Today

Only in the town of London and its' outskirts,

Come and witness a rarely seen magnificent show of the most suburb quality! Acts from every corner of the globe!

The strangest sights and attractions!

~Human~

~Vampire~

& Chain performances!

One day only!

Tickets on sale now!

Details inside

It had been interesting, certainly, and quite enjoyable, actually. The lights and dizzying colours of the tents and performers and the loud, happy music all came together to create a rather spectacular show.

Break would have loved it…though they might have mistaken him for a part of the cast.

And yet, even among the fortune tellers and the travelling folk that had seen it all, not a one knew anything about the information Emily was looking for.

There had been some mutterings among the vampires with the troop, as they whispered amongst themselves half words and strange references, brushing against one another like cats and communicating with tiny, almost unnoticeable gestures and soft inhuman noises until they had reached a conclusion.

"Maar ..."

Nothing. A good amount of ground facts and some vague myths and rumors, but nothing to aid her in her search, in the end. With their hissed and purred advice fresh in her mind, Emily had just enough time to find a ride to her next destination.

It had taken barely any effort to bribe the ring leader to say the wrong things to a certain mountain climber's question.

Barely a half hour later a very adventurous woman was on her way to Russia, a little blue doll unnoticed as it tagged along.


	10. Woman with a Map, Men Without a Clue

They were somewhere.

That was really all they knew at this point.

To the East was deep snow. To the West was deep snow. South of them was deep snow packed over crevasses. North of them was deep snow. All around were gray blurred mountain peaks far, far in the distance, smudges of charcoal on the horizon.

They also had no clue from which direction that had come from.

Leo didn't, so that meant they were lost. Elliot, however, claimed vehemently that they had come from 'that way' accentuated by an angry gesture to the vague South-East.

Emily looked on, a permanent smile etched on her face.


	11. Home is Where the Best Weapons are

In the ornate front hall of the Vesalius Manor, there was a small, yet tastefully elegant parlor. Everything inside was wrought of glass and clear or very lightly colored crystal, everything sparking and reflecting the white streaming in from the large windows.

The couches were large and comfortable, for the Dukes' wife had loved inviting and entertaining her friends and enemies alike, and decorated with faded floral patterns. The small sunflowers and primroses held by the clear vases, their stems distorted by the cut of the glass, were fresh and perky, newly picked from the garden.

Arranged in the center of the room were three small tea tables, a rather plain silver tea set sitting as patiently as the bowl of fruit and the flask of holy water on the other. Never let it be said that the Duchess was not without her quirks.

Slightly muted from the distance of other hallways were children's voices, raised in play, their faded laughter and shouts filling the room with life.

Resting on the floor near the oversized loveseat was a pile of miniature suitcases and hat boxes. Beside them waited a familiar blue doll, wearing a newly bought hat and dress and very, very happy to be home at last.


End file.
